


i want you to touch me there

by helenecixous



Category: Gone Girl (2014), Gone Girl - Gillian Flynn
Genre: F/F, Wow, im annoyed, so damn annoying, wouldn't it just be, wow wouldn't it be so annoying if someone revived this hellpit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-17 09:53:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10591584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helenecixous/pseuds/helenecixous
Summary: Boney’s smiling into the camera, her hair tied back underneath a black FBI snapback, sunglasses on, and she’s flexing her arm, displaying the most toned, impressive bicep that Margo’s probably ever seen.





	

“Jesus Christ,” Rhonda mutters, shaking her head. Since the Nick and Amy debacle, she’s been muttering Jesus Christ to herself and shaking her head a lot more often - not that Margo would know the difference, not that Margo knew who Rhonda Boney was before the Nick and Amy debacle.

But, as it stands, they’re sitting in the beer garden at The Bar that Margo’s recently finished doing up, and the target of Boney’s quiet disdain, Margo sees, is a gaggle of teenage girls with their phones out.

“What?” Margo asks, watching the condensation slide down her pint and pool onto the wooden table before she looks up at Rhonda. “They're not underage, I did ID them before serving.”

“Nah.” Boney shakes her head. “Look at 'em, with their phones way above their heads, makin’ peace signs like it's cute.”

“You’re an officer of the law,” Margo says, watching Rhonda watch the girls. “They're not doing anything they shouldn't be, and  _ you  _ shouldn't be discriminating against those able-bodied well to-do white girls.”

“I just hate this selfie culture.”

Margo snorts. “What's it done to you? Burnt down your house, destroyed your crops, poisoned your well? Kicked your ma down a flight of stairs and then pissed on your cat?”

“If only my kitchen knives were as sharp as your wit.”

“Nah, c'mon, what's your beef with selfies, huh? Don't tell me it's about some illusion about narcissism or whatever the fuck, 'cos if it is, I'm gonna have to punch you.”

Rhonda raises an eyebrow. “Have we touched a nerve?” she asks. “What's your damage with narcissistic millennials?”

“They're not actually narcissistic, though, are they? And if they are it's nothin’ new. Narcissism,  _ proper,  _ full on, shitty narcissism is Nick. It's Amy. It's my dad and your ex husband. It's being too proud and selfish to think about others, it's being too self absorbed by your own importance to see the bigger picture. It's hurting other people and ultimately yourself because you're too wrapped up in yourself to see it. And what it’s  _ not,  _ is realising that you and your mates look cute and taking selfies while you make peace signs.” She drains her pint, and thinks she might as well continue. “See, the whole thing with Narcissus, what makes it a tragedy to me isn't the fact that he falls in love with himself - it's what comes after. It's the consequence. And kids takin’ pictures of themselves isn't really equivalent to drowning because you're crazy obsessed with your own face.”

Rhonda’s looking at her, a small and funny smile on her face. A smile that's only really a half smile, just a little quirk of her lips. “Nah, I see that,” she concedes. “Nicely put.”

“No need to sound so surprised.” She manages to make her tone sound churlish, and to that Rhonda rolls her eyes.

“Shouldn’t you be working?” she asks, the question pointed, her tone light.

“Yes boss.”

“I should arrest you.”

“What’s Amy framed me for this time?”

Boney laughs sarcastically. “Drinking on the job,” she says. “Willful negligence, you’ll be looking to be paid for this half hour you’ve spent going off on tangents about what makes a Greek tragedy.”

“Ouch.” Margo stands up, gives Boney an uncoordinated two fingered salute, takes the empty glasses from the table and leaves, wondering whether Rhonda is watching her walk away.

 

If you’d told Margo Dunne that just one year after the worst few months of her life, she’d not be talking to Nick at all, she’d have laughed. If you’d told her that just one year after the worst few months of her life, she’d have had no fewer than three “serious” girlfriends, she’d have shaken her head and told you to stop being a jerk. And if you’d told her that just one year after the worst few months of her life, she’d have become firm friends with the very same detective Rhonda Boney who had arrested her, she’d have either punched you in the face or had you forcibly removed from The Bar because you’d had way too many already.

And yet here she is, walking away from that obnoxious, insufferable, unbearably cocky copper, with a stupid little smirk that’s making her want to punch herself, wondering whether Boney is watching her walk away.  _ Hoping  _ that she’s watching her walk away, because this morning she chose to wear the jeans that make her hips look amazing.  _ And no, before you ask or go making assumptions,  _ she thinks to her imaginary audience,  _ that choice had nothing to do with the fact that it’s a Saturday, and Saturday just so happens to be the day that Boney comes in for a drink. In fact, when I got up this morning, I didn’t even know it was a Saturday, because what kind of sap actually takes note of the days of the week anymore? Not I, said the walrus. _

  
  


11:01PM: Margo D

 

  * __I thought you hated social media__



 

 

11:05PM: Boney

 

  * __Why does this sound like an accusation? Hello to you too__



 

 

11:06PM: Margo D

 

  * __Found your instagram__



 

11:06PM: Margo D

 

  * __Nice username, sexycop69__



 

 

11:07PM: Boney

 

  * __That’s not my username__



 

 

11:08PM: Margo D

 

  * __I know. Hey, someone should write a song about that. My bad, boney1965__



 

 

11:09PM: Boney

 

  * __Nice stalker skills, Dunne. You get that off your sister in law?__



 

 

11:11PM: Margo D

 

  * __You’re hilarious__



 

 

11:13PM: Boney

 

  * __I know__



 

 

11:14PM: Margo D

 

  * __Got some quality selfies on here, actually. You should take them more often, maybe instead of whinging about the youth of today you could make use of the glorious sunshine that we’ve been blessed with__



 

 

11:15PM: Boney

 

  * __Was that a thinly veiled compliment, or am I dreaming?__



 

 

11:16PM: Margo D

 

  * __You’re dreaming. What’s your snapchat?__



 

 

11:16PM: Boney

 

  * __I don’t have snapchat__



 

 

11:17PM: Margo D

 

  * __Really? So who’s this with the username boney1965? How many kids did your folks have in one year? Added you :-)__



 

 

11:20PM: Boney

 

  * __God, you’re annoying.__



 

 

11:23PM: Margo D

 

  * __And yet here you are, adding me back__



 

 

11:24PM: Boney

 

  * __Stop flirting with me and go the fuck to sleep, Dunne__



 

 

11:30PM: Margo D

 

  * __You stop flirting with me first and I might__



 

 

11:34PM: Boney

 

  * __You think you’re such hot shit, don’t you?__



 

 

11:35PM: Margo D

 

  * __So do you__



 

 

11:36PM: Boney

 

  * __Whatever__



 

11:36PM: Boney

 

  * __G’night, Margo__



 

 

11:37PM: Margo D

 

  * __Night :-) sleep well x__



 

  
  


The next few days are awful. Heatwaves in Missouri cause no small amount of panic, ever since that heat wave in 2007 that lasted twenty one days and resulted, apparently, in thirty four whole hyperthermia deaths. So if the sun’s out and strong enough for more than two days in a row, doors and curtains are kept shut, stores run out of ice, people don’t move from the safety of their air conditioning and their family packs of soda they keep in the fridge. Which is bad for business for both Margo  _ and  _ Boney, because, as Margo points out to her cat, criminals don’t fancy heatstroke and people don’t fancy sweltering in any building that’s not their own home. So she’s bored. Bored as she leans against the bar, trying to balance a tumbler on its edge without it falling and (inevitably) smashing, letting her mind wander, and cautiously, ever so carefully, letting her thoughts creep to the familiar dangerous territory that’s signposted, big and bold with flashing danger lights:  _ Here resteth Rhonda Boney, and Margo Dunne’s dead gay ass. _

Because the hours she’s spent trawling through Boney’s annoyingly active Instagram page are mere childsplay, mere seconds compared to the time she’s spent gazing dreamily into the distance, thinking of her hair, the way the sun lightens it and turns parts of it blonde, the way she stands: her feet shoulder-width apart, her hands on her hips, resting just above the gun that she keeps on her belt, even on her days off (the cop pose, Rhonda had told her, the number one way to establish yourself as someone who could beat a dickhead up before you’ve even said one word). Margo thinks about that little arrogant smirk, the eye rolling, her jawline -  _ god,  _ that jawline - and she can’t bring herself to feel bad about it. Because she admires Boney, sure. Admires how she’s a woman in a man’s profession, admires how she can intimidate and charm douchebags (present company not excluded) in one breath. Just because she might admire her on her own, in bed, and let her thoughts stray to the way her shirts stretch over her breasts and hips, to the time Margo was lucky enough to witness Boney working out, well… that’s her business, isn’t it? That’s between her and the gatepost, between her and those forearms. It’s inconsequential, really.  _ Really. _

She’s startled out of her thoughts by her phone vibrating insistently on the bar. She picks it up, blames the blush on her cheeks on the heat, before she sees that she’s got a snap, that merry little yellow ghost is grinning at her, taunting her, the name next to it making her tummy flip,  _ boney1965.  _ She taps on it, trepidatious, because they’ve not actually used this app to communicate before, and gasps a little half gasp, drops her phone, and swears.

“Oh, you fucking didn’t,” she mutters, bending to pick up her phone and catch the last few seconds of the picture. Boney’s smiling into the camera, her hair tied back underneath a black FBI snapback, sunglasses on, and she’s flexing her arm, displaying the most toned, impressive bicep that Margo’s probably ever seen. And it’s all on display, all visible, because Go can see that Boney’s wearing a tanktop, and just peeking out from the shoulder of the top, she can see the edge of what looks like a tattoo, a tattoo of what looks like a dagger.

Margo can feel her heartbeat in her fucking toes.

_ Sun’s out guns out  _ is the caption, and Margo wishes that she could’ve screenshotted it, (not that it’s an image she’s likely to forget, probably ever). Ignoring the embarrassing flush that the selfie caused, she sends a selfie back, captions it:  _ nice tatt ?????  _ and sends it.

“God, fucking damnit,” she says to herself. “Get it together, Go. Keep it in your fuckin’ pants.”

But the truth is so simple: Rhonda Boney has to be the most attractive woman Margo’s ever met. She ticks all of the boxes, even created a few new ones, and this will we won’t we bullshit is starting to get on her nerves. She’s convinced that if she can convince Boney to go to bed with her, she can just fuck her and move on like she’s done with every other crush she’s ever had. But there’s also something fun about the chase, about the uncertainty, the thrill of pushing the boundaries, of testing the waters, that she’s enjoying more than she’s enjoyed it before with anybody else.

Her phone buzzes again - another selfie, although this one is much less deliberately antagonistic than the last. The caption reads  _ you at work? _

Margo sends her a picture of the empty bar in front of her, and types _ Yes. Where else would i want to spend this beautifully sunny day? _

_ If you can make a boulevardier in the time it takes me to get there, _ Rhonda’s response reads,  _ I might stay for a few. _

Margo smiles, sends back a picture of a cocktail glass.  _ On it. _

And in some bizarre stroke of luck, Rhonda walks in just as Margo finishes straining the cocktail into the glass, and they grin at each other as Margo slides it over the bar.

Rhonda’s still in her tanktop, still got the snapback on, still got the absurdly amazing arms and the tattoo, and it’s all Margo can do to keep from mooning over her like a lovestruck teenager with her first crush.

“I’m impressed,” Boney says as she slides onto a barstool.

“What’s with the FBI hat?” Margo says, staring at it because that means she’s not going to be caught staring at anything that’s less appropriate. “Is it a blatant piss take or what?”

Boney shrugs, pulling the glass toward her and taking a sip. “I think it’s funny,” she says. “Gil got it for me.”

“Sure,” Margo agrees. “Like that NYPD hoodie I have. Not because I got arrested by the NYPD. It was a t shirt they gave me when they arrested me.”

“Funny. You’ve never been arrested. I checked.”

“Isn’t that illegal? Also untrue.  _ You  _ arrested me.”

“Didn’t go on your record though, did it.”

“Ah. My hero. Thank you so much for making sure that it didn’t follow me around forever. How shit would  _ that  _ have been. Anyway, why’d you check up on me, huh? Gotta make sure I’m wife material?” She’s grinning, obviously joking, but Boney just shrugs.

“Perhaps,” she says, deadpan, and Margo’s stomach drops.

“Shut up, Boney, sincerity doesn’t look good on you.”

“You kiddin’? Everything looks good on me.”

“Damn.” Margo busies herself with making herself a drink. Might as well - there’s not going to be a sudden influx of customers. “You got me there.”

“You’re cute.”

“Yeah, next time you say that to me, try not to make it sound like you’re talking to a ten year old who has a crush on you.”

“Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Have a crush on me?”

Margo looks at her, looks at the way Boney’s looking back at her, and for a second neither of them say anything. She considers a few responses,  _ do you have a crush on me though? I think that’s the question,  _ and  _ what the fuck, of course not,  _ and  _ uh. Yeah. Funny story, actually, I’ve kind of been crushing on you since you kind of almost had my twin brother executed.  _ None of them seem very appropriate. She half wishes that she could have a conveniently timed aneurysm, or heat stroke, or maybe something less serious. Perhaps somebody  _ else  _ could have an aneurysm, or a heat stroke, or someone could get murdered right across the street. Anything, really, to make Boney stop looking at her with quite so much intensity.

“Would there be a problem if I did?” she finally says, shaking the cocktail mixer carefully.

“I don’t know,” Boney says, sipping her drink thoughtfully. “Would you do anythin’ about it?”

“Would you  _ want  _ me to?”

“Perhaps.”

“That’s such a typical cop non-answer.”

Boney just grins, and looks over to the door. “Why don’t you lock that?” she asks. “I don’t think you’re gonna get a sudden influx of thirsty customers today, somehow.”

For some reason, Margo pours her drink and then does as she’s told. She flips the sign in the window and then locks the door, and when she turns around again, Boney’s standing right in front of her. And this could go one of two ways, Margo thinks, either she’s about to be murdered, or she’s about to be kissed. And god, she’s hoping for the latter.

The air between them suddenly feels thick and loaded, and Margo meets Rhonda’s gaze evenly, tries not to swallow audibly like some shitty cartoon. Tries to be discrete as she wipes her palms on her jeans.

Boney moves forward, puts one palm flat against the door, right next to Margo’s head, boxing her in between Boney’s warm body and the door and leaning in so that all Margo would have to do is move forward by less than an inch and they’d be flush against each other.

“Would you do anythin’ about it?” Boney repeats, softly, looking at Margo’s lips.

“Would you want me to?” she’s pleased that her voice is quite steady, and her hands (the traitors) automatically come to rest on Boney’s hips, pulling her closer by millimetres.

Rhonda’s grinning now, sharp, predatory, and her free hand is skimming Margo’s waist, settling on the side of her breast, and Margo sucks in a breath. She’s pissed - she’s real pissed off that she’s this flustered, this  _ pinned,  _ because it’s normally her doing the pinning. But Boney is so  _ tall,  _ and Boney knows exactly what she wants, and what she seems to want right now is Margo Dunne.

And Margo Dunne has never been the kind to deny a girl what she wants.

So she surges forward, pulls Boney to her, kisses her with such a finality that it’s not a surprise that Rhonda’s hand find its way beneath her t shirt almost instantly, and they’re kissing like they’re not in a public place, like they’re not sober, like they’re not first timers, like their skin isn’t already damp from sweat and like it isn’t a hundred degrees past comfortable already.

All Margo wants to do is have Boney, right there, and when she pulls away, Margo follows almost blindly.

“Perhaps,” Boney smirks. And Margo’s fucked. She pushes Rhonda backwards, back to the bar, pins her there with her hips, and she kisses her like she’s Eve, and Rhonda Boney is the fucking apple.

And if that apple was half as good as the taste of this detective’s lips, Margo forgives Eve for damning all of humanity, forgives, and totally fucking understands it, one hundred percent. Without a shadow of a doubt.

**Author's Note:**

> title from a little death - the neighbourhood


End file.
